Come One, Come All
by Sterenyk Strey
Summary: 'Skwillin admired their latest acquisition for the circus, a rescue animal, though the creature clearly didn't recognize its rescue as such, neither did it acknowledge him yet as rescuer.' Wing!Shep whump. One-shot. Sequel posted. See COCA: Part Deux. XD


Skwillin admired their latest acquisition for the circus, a rescue animal, though the creature clearly didn't recognize its rescue as such, neither did it acknowledge him yet as rescuer, if all the snapping and snarling and struggling was anything to go by. It backed itself into a far corner of its cage, squatted, front paws hugging its ribs, its back paws tucked under its haunches. Its entire body was tense as if ready to strike, its pale green eyes blazing.

Skwillin chuckled mirthlessly. The scene was mildly entertaining, even if it was a tad poignant.

Hm.

No, truth be told, it was desperately sad. Skwillin often questioned his chosen profession, that of ringmaster. There were times when his heart wasn't in it, and this was one of those times. He sighed, and gathered himself as he pulled up an old circus chair with just three legs, and slumped in it, feeling spent.

"You just keep that up now, and see where it gets you," he declared, wagging a foreclaw. He rattled the animal's cage for good measure, though he instantly regretted it.

The thing flinched from the sudden noise, but recovered quickly. "Go… to Hell," it replied hoarsely. Then it coughed, and hunched over with a grimace, wrapping its ragged wings around its body.

Skwillin chuckled once more. Someone must've taught it a few lines that it repeated out of habit. Avians were like that. Amazing mimics, they were. Or so he'd heard. Expressive, too, if this one was anything to go by. He frowned, however, at its probable kennel cough. Too bad. Still, the vet was doing her rounds, and with any luck she'd have the creature patched up in next to no time, and ready to dazzle the crowd.

Every now and then, the creature's defensive posture relaxed slightly as it succumbed to bouts of uneasy sleep. Skwillin could hardly call them naps, given their clearly disturbed nature. The avian would leap up as if startled, flap its ragged wings, rise a pawspan or two, then collapse onto its knees, and slump over with a moan, its energy clearly spent.

It was male, or so the paperwork stated. It hadn't been sluiced down yet, so Skwillin hadn't had the opportunity to check under its wrap to sex it. The thing had fought to keep its clothing, however sparse, and in an effort not to upset it too badly, he had permitted it that one small victory, though he hadn't expected any sense of modesty in a lesser creature. It was odd, but most likely nothing more than a habit. Ingrained. One of those things.

Skwillin had once read somewhere that the male of its kind was markedly more hirsute than the female, and this one bore a fine dark down over much of its off-white body, except its back and neck, and of course, its palms and soles, much like his own kind. It sported a topknot of dark, spiky hair, enough to be able to ruffle like a cub, and that made it more endearing than most of the other animals in the exhibit, especially the reptiles. They were repulsive. He shuddered at the mere thought of them.

Over the years, he'd learned to read which creatures were fit for the ring, which ones should be euthanized, chopped up and fed to the maoras, or returned to their sentimental owners - or simply set free to live out the last of their days once the natural habitat had been determined, though that was a tough call, given how many worlds his people frequented on a regular basis. It was hard to keep track of where some of them originated from. One thing was for certain - the avian's kind was not of this world.

There was something almost spiritual about them, and that was part of their attraction. Skwillin prided himself on being the more astute partner in this outfit. After all, Waarul would have settled for the commonplace. He often played it safe, but just look where it got them. Their takings were down for the third year in a row.

This one was unusual. Its eyes fixed him like a cornered predator, though one desperate for some decent sleep. Skwillin scrutinized it. It stared back, unblinking. That was alarming. He knew it hadn't been bred in captivity, but it should have been broken in by now, whimpering and groveling, given the passage of the years. He had expected it to look defeated, like a ferrum being led to slaughter, but whenever awake, or even while not, the avian radiated defiance. Skwillin blinked first.

Their first ever avian. Hard to believe. He had expected it to be garish. This one was quite drab, apart from a pawful of pretty red stripes and yellow spots on its back. On closer inspection in the less dim light of home, he saw that it bore endless scars ranging from puce to silver, and its marginally less dull markings seemed… leaky. Still, it was exciting to finally have one in their possession, and should the thing pass muster, Skwillin and partner stood to make money from it. He could pretty it up with jewelry, find clothing to match its coloring and markings. His personal choices were either black to match its fur, green to match its eyes, or perhaps he would invest in an expensive color shift silk to pick out the purple-green iridescence of its dark, feathery wings. He was leaning towards the fancy silk. This one would definitely be a crowd puller. Skwillin rubbed his paws together in anticipatory glee, though he had little to spend his takings on since giving up booze. He considered investing in circus memorabilia and other finery to decorate his den, and finally woo himself a mate.

His plan was to display the avian chained to a rock, looking wilted, which wouldn't exactly be a stretch given its current condition, then send in a maora, alarming it - faking alarming it if he had it trained by then. As the maora pounced, the avian would launch itself high at the last moment - he could hear the squeal of the crowd even now - only to be hauled back down by the maora, paw over paw, link over link, whereupon he and Waarul would bound in at the very last moment, fend off the maora with prods and bullwhips, thus saving the poor, timid avian, who would reward them with a demonstration of its prowess in the air. Back flips, somersaults - the works. The crowd would go wild, and the money would come rolling in.

He had argued bitterly with Waarul over the purchase. The thing was sick, and by rights only fit for maora food, according to Waarul. The moment they had expressed even vague interest in it, its price had shot up, but by then, Skwillin had wanted it. Waarul said - quite rightly, he had to admit - that they could have bought twelve performing horses with that kind of coinage. Actual horses. From the surface. Still, he could almost hear the yawns coming from the jaded audience, and the endless demands for their money back. Yes, horses were surface creatures, but the avian was a sky creature, and thereby harder to come by.

He wasn't entirely sure what had charmed him in the first place about this one, what special quality it possessed, why he had paid an exorbitant price for it apart from it being a living, breathing avian, and he hoped he hadn't let his heart rule his head. In the end, he had given Waarul a sly look, and had reminded him that he owed him after the disaster with the performing worms. Waarul's bright idea. The crowd had seen food, and had eaten them. He had warned him, and just look what happened. A stampede. After that, he vowed to provide refreshments during every intermission. Performing worms were almost as hard to come by as avians, and the unfortunate incident had almost cost them their credibility and their livelihood.

Waarul had gone into one of his sulks after the avian purchase, and Skwillin, feeling buyer's remorse, had elected to spend his afternoon admiring his prize, forcing himself to feel justified at the potentially unjustifiable expense. It coughed, then groaned. Skwillin winced. Perhaps he should have listened to Waarul, and bought a troupe of bears instead. His musings were interrupted by a well-timed harrumph. Skwillin startled. He might even have dozed off.

"Pim Skwillin, we need to talk."

Ah, his dear littermate, the vet.

"Pim Karrowin, how lovely to see you," he simpered. The look on Karrowin's face told him to cut the crap, that she would brook no argument concerning his latest acquisition, and he had better comply to any and all her requests. He had never cared for Waarul's description of her being a bleeding heart advocate of animal rights with no business sense, but for some reason, his partner's sentiment came to mind, albeit uninvited.

"Skwillin, you and I have known each other since birth."

The usual precursor to a total bitching out. "That goes without saying, Karr. What are your findings?"  
He gritted his teeth.

"You waste no time, I see."

"Waarul is mad at me. I - need to know. Will it - " He swallowed hard. "Will it live?"

"It's not pining, if that's what you think. It's been abused. Can't you tell? The thing is half starved!" She waved her paws in the air. "Its ribs are showing!"

"I have never seen an avian before!" he screeched, then he toned it down a notch. "How am I to know what they are supposed to look like?" Skwillin turned away. "No, that's no excuse. I - ignored the alarm bells. I think I wanted an avian so badly, that - "

"You wished to save your ailing circus."

He could imagine the accompanying sage nod. He could hear the reprimand in her voice. Without looking back at her, he replied softly, "Yes." After several moments, he even dared to face her.

Karrowin looked at him long and hard. Uh oh. He flashed his best maora cub eyes at her, and her expression softened.

"Come, brother. Help me with it. I'd like to clean it up, give it shots, sew up the lacerations on its back, and slap some salve on its burns, then splint both its wings."

Skwillin gasped.

"Lacerations? Burns?"

_Splints?_

"Thirty," she stated flatly, "in two neat rows of fifteen in a chevron pattern, six above its wings, the rest below. Yes, orderly. Deliberate abuse." She paused, and sized him up. "Yes, it has even markings," she rolled her eyes, "if you include the endless array of infected burn marks in between. You were duped. As usual. Look, I can rub charcoal in to form dark scars to match its fur and feathers, if you like. That can also help with healing."

"I... Yes. Absolutely." Then he thought about it. "I'd better ask Waarul first."

His littermate nodded, then narrowed her eyes at him. "Have you bonded with this avian?"

Skwillin merely rolled his head.

"Ahah! I see you have. You always were soft." She chuckled, and scrubbed a massaging paw into his shoulder.

"It talks, you know," he added. He was enjoying the attention. She backed off, raising an eyebrow. Just because she was born moments before him, she thought she could put him in his place with just a look or an affectionate rub. She knew him well, blast her to the Upperworld.

"Of course it talks. It's an avian. They mimic." She shrugged.

"I know, but - it seems intelligent." He shrugged back.

"Cunning. Animals are cunning. We should both know. After all, we both chose to work with them, each in our own way." She grinned. "You can be my veterinary assistant for the day. I think I can save it, give it something to fight infection, and I know you are quite capable of treating it kindly."

"Unlike… " Skwillin let that thought trail. Waarul. He had argued with Waarul as the sellers readied the avian for transport, buckling it into the back of their wagon. His cold-hearted business partner wanted the thing on display from day one, claiming it was too spirited, and they should test its mettle, pit it against a one of their chunkier maoras, though maybe a declawed one for starters. The crowd would never realize, though they would spot a maora with no teeth. It wouldn't be quite so exciting if the avian only narrowly escaped being gummed to death, Waarul had said, causing Skwillin to snicker. Waarul had cleverly defused his anger as always.

Skwillin liked the idea of it being unbroken, recalcitrant, though it looked jaded. Used. Abused. Karr was right. The avian, who said its name was Jaan, had been abused. He knew the thing was probably repeating the name of its previous owner, but for want of a better name for it, Jaan it was. Somehow, the name was fitting. Honest. Strong. Noble.

Skwillin vowed to pamper his pretty Jaan. He would allow his littermate to rub charcoal into its wounds, then he would calm it, comfort it, pet it, feed it well once he knew what it liked, limit its appearance in the ring, save up for a mate for it once he had sexed it correctly, dress it in iridescent silk after its hopefully clean bill of health and the obligatory sluicing, and restrain it only with chains of gold and silver - and keep it away from Waarul, who knew how to wield a bullwhip. Jaan was marked enough already, he now conceded, and if he told Waarul he didn't care to mar its current markings, Waarul would most likely see sense, especially if he agreed to the charcoaling. He was hardly dumb, after all. Skwillin just had to ram home to Waarul that Jaan bore all the hallmarks of a money-spinner. All would be well.

Except -

Skwillin had to hope those blasted Atlantians weren't sniffing about. He had heard they were avians, too, though he had his doubts. Some kind of avian rescue organization they were. His witless cousin Pilliam claimed he'd seen a flock of them recently, circling a mountain peak, and had told the tale around a fire of one particularly monstrous-looking one with long brown tendrils issuing from its head, and brown leathery wings, and brown leathery clothes. Yes, clothes! Everyone had scoffed at that, leaving Pilliam in a sulk. His cousin claimed the Atlantians did search and rescue of other avians, but that would mean the things were more intelligent than they gave them credit for, and in any case, that rumor had been propagated by Pilliam, so who was Skwillin to worry? They were safe in the tunnels, after all. And the cavern roof was rock solid. Not about to be breeched. Not in his lifetime at least.

He scurried towards the big top currently housed in Cavern Two to help set up their new display, and hurtled into a furious-looking Waarul, who was slapping the handle of his whip against his thigh.

"It. Talks." It. Jaan, no doubt.

"No, it mimics. Anyway, what did it say to get you so riled up?"

"It growled something at me, and I quote, 'Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty mole.'"

Skwillin barely suppressed a snort. "Remember the warbling dolphins of Horon?"

"They didn't exactly only warble, Skwillin. They cursed like the sailors whose ships they swam alongside."

"My point exactly."

"Meaning?"

"Jaan must've once belonged to a sailor!"

"You… named it?"

"No! It named itself. Or perhaps it repeated an owner's name. Jaan the sailor. Makes sense."

"Makes more sense that it was taught to say its own name, but still, don't you get attached to it. You have that look in your eye."

Skwillin glared. "As do you. Where are you going with that whip? Leave it alone. You are not to touch it, not until I've had a chance to mend it, gain its trust, and train it. You owe me!" He practically squealed that last sentence.

"No," Waarul added quietly. "I owed you. Past tense. Now we're quits." He cracked the whip, then turned on his heels, and charged through a side tunnel. To Cavern One, where the taverns lay.

Waarul could be a violent drunk. Skwillin skulked after him, and vowed to pull the whip out of his nasty paws the very moment he went beyond buzzed. He vowed to make sure Jaan reached and maintained pristine condition; bright eyed, sleek and lithe. Though he promised himself he wouldn't, Skwillin had fallen in love with Jaan. He just had to protect it from his sadistic partner. If past events were anything to go by, he knew that would be an uphill battle. It was little wonder their circus was in dire straits. Waarul's propensity for killing or maiming circus animals was renowned throughout Kandia.

Skwillin sighed. If it came to it, he would surrender his Jaan to the Atlantians, if they even existed, though he hoped it would never come to that.

oooOOOooo

**A/N **- Sequel, yes? No? Maybe? *winks*


End file.
